by Beth Aldrich
Dear God. I love those boys and that dog. Would it be out of the question to wish for Steven to heal, a safe pregnancy, AND the ability to talk with my dog?
Thankfully, we only live a few minutes from school, because I can barely see the road through this waterfall of tears. On the sly I grab a tissue from the sun visor and blot my face as we pull into the garage, hoping the boys are too preoccupied with their conversation to notice. The lyrics about sending an angel play on.
Barney, my angel, stands by us.
Like every day, my sons place their backpacks on their cubby hooks in the mudroom, then take off their shoes and wash their hands before going into the office/playroom to work on homework and play. I’m glad I’ve successfully passed along these habits that will serve them for years to come. Plus, I don’t want school germs entering my home through the side door. My holistic and protective approach to health—where healthy food and preventative medicine reigns—seems to anchor me most of the time, except for pizza cheat nights. But what good did it do for Steven earlier today?
A wave of pregnancy exhaustion and fear for Steven hits, directing me to the closest chair. Luckily my phone is within reach.
“Misty, hey, it’s me,” I begin as soon as the other line clicks on. “I wanted to let you know Steven was in a horrible accident early this morning, and—”
“What? How did it happen?” Her reaction is a mix between a squeak and a shout. “When, where? Oh, my God, Betsy, what can I do? I’ll be right over.” The line goes silent.
I know I’ve been leaning on her a lot lately, but what else am I supposed to do? Friends help friends, and now that we’ve crossed over the red line to the point of no return, I have nothing to hide from her.
Zipping through our connected fence door, she runs from her sliding patio door to mine. When we built our home, I told Steven I wanted a secure, six-foot-high solid wood fence around the perimeter of our property. Not long after Misty and I became friends, we added the doorway, connecting our yards.
Like a breath of fresh air, my superhero neighbor swoops in to save the day. She lets herself in through the back door with her key, to find me walking over to the counter finishing off the last bite of some cheddar cheese and a cracker. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, then toss it in the trashcan, and cross the room to join her by the couch.
“Thanks so much for coming. I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you.” We share a mutual smile and tight embrace. “Before I tell you about Steven’s accident, I was wondering if you could stay here with the boys while I run an errand?”
Nodding in agreement, Misty says, “Sure. Now, what’s up with Steven? I’m all ears.”
“The doctors say they’ll give me an update later, so what I’m about to confidentially tell you is all I know.” I lower my voice so the boys don’t hear me talking. “I also have something rather unusual to share about my experience at the hospital and with Barney…” I pause and our eyes lock into an understanding. We sit for a quiet moment and then she says, “Do tell,” as she leans forward, elbow on knee as I begin to give her a detailed recount of the day so far.
I’m waiting in silence for a minute, which seems more like an eternity. Finally, Misty voices her thoughts.
“Betsy, I am so sorry to hear about Steven. I’m sure you’ll be at the hospital a lot over the next few days, so remember you can count on me. He will get through this,” she says, grabbing my hands and giving them a squeeze. “He’s a strong man… healthy, young, in good shape.”
“Agreed, but the doctor wasn’t so sure. The crazy thing is, when I could understand Steven, he seemed so, so… gentle. Unlike how he’s been treating me lately.”
“Really?”
“He’s a good, kind person, but he’s also had a dark, moody side. And God only knows what he does when he’s traveling. But this version of Steven was more sincere—innocent and loving.”
“Well, when you’re in a serious state, sometimes you shed the darkness and lean toward the light,” Misty says. “I know you’re spiritual and accepting of the fact that angels exist, but do you think an angel was working through him?”
“Not to be ironic, but again, God only knows. Seriously, I’m talking to my dog—who I think understands me—and sharing thoughts with a husband in the ICU. I just pray they can help him, whoever they are. I look up and around the room, almost thinking I might see an angel or ghost floating around.
“They will heal him. Just have faith. In the doctors and the angels.” Her supportive smile gleams.
“I hope so… I really do have to get going, but I’ll bring something easy home for dinner. You and the girls can join us. Hopefully tonight’s meal won’t be as dramatic,” I say, thinking of last night’s note incident. “I’ll be back in a little while. Thanks again.”
As I leave the house and lock the door, I look carefully around the yard, at the gate, and over to the garage, making sure no one is watching me. I scan the road outside my side gate to see if there are any street cameras on the poles. I count two. When I go to Village Hall tomorrow I’ll see what their surveillance tapes have.
When we first moved here, the neighborhood welcome packet touted how safe and secure this village was, just twenty-five minutes from the city, but a world away. Now, I’m not so sure. Downtown, you had muggings and random attacks and violence, but as you drive north on Lakeshore Drive, life is supposed to become rosier, safer, and less stressful. When they printed their brochures, I’m sure they never imagined that this madman with pink slips would be coming to town.
My first quick stop is back at the doctor’s office to give a urine sample and let Dr. Deller double-check the baby after the spotting incident. Donna is, as usual, painstakingly slow checking patients in for our visits with Dr. Deller and Dr. Hildebrandt. She always confirms if our address, insurance information, and status is up to date. I know it’s her job, but quite frankly it’s kind of annoying at this point. I was just here earlier this week. I guess not everyone is on Betsy time.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Ryan. How are you feeling today?” she asks. That’s a loaded question, which at this point only my attentive dog, my ICU-ridden husband, and I could begin to answer honestly.
“Fine, thanks. Is he running on time? I’ve got to get back to my sons at home.” Hoping this will nudge her along a little bit.
“Sure is. Hey, I’ll be right back,” she says. “I have to run to the stock closet and get some more office supplies and then give this file to Dr. Hildebrandt. The nurse will call you in a few minutes.” She hands me a small cup. “You know the drill.” As I grab for the cup, I see a small stack of pink paper sitting on her desk. Squinting, I shake my head and continue to the bathroom, looking over my shoulder, half expecting to see a madman following me. Knock it off, Betsy. It’s not that unusual for a women’s health practice to have pink paper. It’s ironic, but not out of the ordinary.
Peeing in a cup is never a fun thing to do, and being almost eight months pregnant makes it even more difficult. I aim the best I can, but nine times out of ten I get urine running down my arm, barely filling the cup. Luckily, I always seem to get just enough.
It’s funny—we weren’t going to find out the sex of the baby this time around because we didn’t want to jinx it. We just wanted to have a healthy baby, regardless of the gender. Why then, did Steven tell me? Was it my imagination? Did I make it up? Wishful thinking? Continuing to silently sleuth my situation, I pull up my black leggings and straighten my floral Zulily maternity tunic. I scrunch up my brows as I realize a drop of pee landed on my Tory Burch flats. Figures! You can dress me up, but you can’t get me to pee straight.
I imagine our little girl running through the yard with her own miniature version of my cream-colored designer flats. Her hair is in a pink bow, matching her fancy purple dress, like Mommy. Her brothers chase and tickle her as she plops to a sitting position. They circle her and protect her. She’s their baby sister. We are a family. Soon. I’ll have a daughter soon.
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br /> Back in the waiting room, I’m left alone with just People magazine to keep me company. Flipping through the pages, I see an article on celebrity moms who have “Bounced Back After Baby.” Who are they kidding? I’ve had two kids and that weight is not coming off in just two months. I’d love to know what kind of drug or surgery they get, because this mom would love to bounce back that fast. I’m a real mom and chef who loves to eat and I’m not planning on starving anytime soon.
“Scuse me.” A man’s voice pulls my glance up from my reading. It’s the janitor, swooping past to empty the trash bin that’s now filled with little cone-shaped paper cups, which we moms become all too familiar with during these regular pee-checking visits. “You waitin’ for the doctor?”
That’s odd. I wonder why he’s asking? I reply, “Um, yeah, Dr. Deller.” I watch him nod and walk away. He’s a tall, dark-haired gentleman, a man of few words, which makes me wonder why he was so rude to me the other day. He casually goes behind Donna’s reception area, empties the trash there, lingers to wipe her monitor with a green microfiber cloth, glances around, then proceeds to the back area by the exam rooms. That’s even more odd. I would think he could do this after business hours. Well, I guess I am the last patient of the day. I remind myself to stop being so paranoid. In my mind, everyone’s a suspect.
It’s always awkward to be in the stirrups. The OB-GYN visit is one I’ve gotten used to over the past few years, but the cold chrome footholds don’t do it for me. Then there’s the latex glove with that cold petroleum jelly stuff. It feels so intrusive, so impersonal. Dr. Deller always diverts his eyes from mine while I keep my eyes trained up at the ceiling. The poster they’ve positioned up there is of a grassy knoll filled with flowers and butterflies. The sky is blue, and the lake reflects the hills in its glassy surface. I guess I’m not the only one who needs a distraction from this position.
“Well, my dear, everything looks fine. Thank you for coming back in to get a thorough exam. Yesterday was more of a social visit—but let’s keep that off the record. I know I shared a lot with you, and I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable,” he says after a moment of checking.
As I respond, he peels off the latex glove and tosses it into the red biohazardous waste bin.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been very well-behaved…” My voice trails off as I look down to the floor, suddenly choking back a shuddering sob.
“Oh no, Betsy, what’s the matter? Listen, your baby is doing just fine. This little bun in the oven is finishing up and should be born on time, no more complications.”
It’s funny, or maybe ironic, but at this point, I feel like I already know this in my bones. “Thank you, doc. I really do believe you. But it’s not that. It’s Steven. He’s been in an accident and is in the ICU… I was there earlier today, but he was unconscious so I left.” I feel my jaw clench as I think of my husband unconscious in the hospital bed. “I’m actually going to head over there again because I haven’t heard from the doctors yet.”
He widens his eyes, causing his forehead to deeply crease as he softly replies, “Oh, I had no idea. What can I do to help?” He rolls his stool closer to the exam table. “I could go over there and check in on him, if you’d like?” At this moment, I appreciate what he’s trying to do for me. I’m also grateful that he was there for me yesterday, and now he’s willing to check on Steven. Who does that? I feel the tension in my brow relax as I shoot him a grateful smile. I may have misjudged my doctor. There’s no possible way he’s the stalker, but what is this nagging pit in my gut?
“That is so incredibly generous of you, but I don’t know. I’m worried the stress of all of this will harm the baby. I’ve been trying to get quiet, meditate, clear my thoughts, and just breathe.”
“That’s a good idea, Betsy.” He lowers his voice as he shares, “When my wife was in the hospital, I used to go there and sit quietly with her, hoping and praying for some connection.” Looking out the window and then returning his gaze to me, he says, “I used to sleep in the chair next to her bed, and I swear… I used to think that she would talk to me, in my mind, through my dreams.”
I try not to let him see the shock on my face as he continues. “She would tell me that everything would be okay and that God is good and is here with us,” he confides. “I could feel that she was protecting me.”
Sitting there, unaware that my jaw is hanging open, I listen and nod. The similarities and odd circumstances send waves to my stomach, and heat rises in my face. It is possible that Steven and Barney really are communicating with me, in their own ways. The overload of this information causes my head to spin. I grip harder onto the side of the exam table as I pause, wondering if I should… here goes nothing. “Well, doctor, I have a confession to make…” I shift my weight to my elbows. “…I, too, have had a similar experience, with Steven, and with my dog, Barney.”
“Are you kidding me?” His face lights up, like I’ve affirmed everything he’s been wondering about for years. “Like what?”
“No, I’m not kidding! In fact, this morning when Barney started to react to what I was saying, I thought I was going crazy.”
My doctor nods in agreement. “I can only imagine.”
“Then, when I picked up my sons at school, he wagged his tail and reacted just as I was thinking about how the song on the radio was sending me a sign.”
“That’s some dog, Betsy.”
“Tell me about it. I keep thinking maybe it’s my imagination, but there was no denying, he’s been trying to get my attention for quite some time. I guess I’ve been so preoccupied with my life that I didn’t see the signs.”
“Well, why would you? It’s not exactly an everyday experience, having a dog directly respond to specific situations like that.”
“Exactly. But when I was at the hospital this morning and my husband communicated with me, I couldn’t dismiss it. It was true, it was happening—with my husband and dog, to some extent. I don’t get words from Barney, but I imagine what he would say, and it feels like it’s generated from his thoughts. I know it sounds crazy.”
I’m starting to see my physician in a totally different light. I no longer feel uncomfortable sharing deep, personal things with him; instead I find myself craving to hear more about his experiences with his wife. How did he know it was real? Why did it happen to both of us? Questions I want to ask him, flood my thoughts as I make my mind up about Dr. Deller. I’m sure now that he can’t be the stalker—and yet, I still have this gnawing feeling about this office.
“Do you think you ever had this type of interaction with Barney and Steven on this level before and just didn’t realize it?”
I push myself up so I can sit on the exam table to continue our conversation upright, and pull the flimsy paper over my lap. “Yes. In fact, as I think back, I know of at least two or three other times where Barney was trying to get my attention, but I never put the pieces together.” Once, he was pacing back and forth by the back door, moaning. I decided to check the backyard and discovered Morgan, stuck in the swing, hanging upside down. I rushed out to unhook his shoe while Barney ran alongside me, barking.
There was a time when he started howling nonstop at midnight. Steven ran downstairs and noticed that our garage door was open. We suspected that maybe the neighborhood teenagers used their parents’ garage clicker to open the doors along our alley; there were two other doors opened, too. I don’t know how Barney knew that, but he did. Unfortunately, our detached garage isn’t hooked up to the alarm system.
I also recall Steven and I having strange yet similar thoughts with each other. One day I was thinking about calling him at work, and the phone rang and it was Steven. Another instance happened when I was craving ice cream during my pregnancy with Morgan, when out of the blue, he brought my favorite flavor home after work. We never added up the many times this happened with us. We would always chalk it up to the fact that we’re an old married couple. This thought brings a twinkle to my eye and flutter in my heart.
>
My doctor smiles and starts telling a story about a time his wife and he joked about how they must read each other’s mind, wondering if they were secretly separated at birth or something. As he’s talking, I can’t help but drift in and out of the conversation and begin to think about other circumstances in my life where I had the ability to think of things before they happened, or when I’d imagine someone and they call—it’s on my mind now, every second. And how could it not be? It’s a whole new universe I’ve stumbled upon by accident—an existence that might protect me from the madman on the loose.
Zeroing back in on my conversation with my doctor, I nod and agree that our stories are similar, knowing what it’s like to communicate on another, more spiritual plane. Guilt riddles me as I acknowledge to myself that I’ve been selfishly thinking of my own internal stories, but he doesn’t seem bothered.
“Well, Betsy, it looks like we share a special, blessed gift,” he says. “If you don’t mind, would you please keep this between us? I have some nosy people around here and I’d prefer not to have my business talked about. Dr. Hildebrandt isn’t as religious or spiritual, and this kind of talk might bother him. And who knows about the office staff? People can be very snoopy.”
“You should know me better than that by now,” I say with a soft smile, shifting my seat to get comfortable, still clinging to the paper covering on my lap. “I would never share anything private that we talk about with your staff. I’m very thankful I have someone who can relate.”
He smiles, and I hesitate. “My question is, how do I proceed with Steven? Do you think I should keep trying to communicate with him like this? Or should I let him heal and rest and see if he reaches out to me first?”
“I think you have to wait and see how things go when you head back over to the hospital.”
The knock on the exam room door causes us to jolt and shift our glance toward the door.